“Tish, I’d like to ask something of you.”
She stops in mid swirl …
Picture: Tish in the 'boyfriend shirt': Click here to reveal.
She’s been doing something she can hardly believe is her— posing and preening for him, naked but for the shirt he had been wearing last night, all unbuttoned; she’s the opposite of an exhibitionist, shy, retiring, not a wearer of sexy outfits; although she is stylish about it, and her clothes are feminine in character, they are chosen to communicate her seriousness, her gravitas, her self-respect; this strong— irresistible— desire to display herself so obviously for Blunt is new. New and glorious.
… stops in mid swirl, the shirt carrying on, so that she is full-frontal to him, her breasts— firm and delightfully soft both— still moving, her legs wider apart than she is quite comfortable with, as a static pose, but … well— the idea that he wants something from her is, frankly, wonderful.
So far, it has been him— Blunt; he had given her no other name, told her that’s what everyone called him— Blunt who has given everything; she has just been the grateful and amazed receiver of so much from him— so many revelations, surprises, delightful experiences, shocking but swooningly welcome realisations— all of which she knows will be changing her, will take days, weeks to assimilate— delightful and challenging, too, but urgently welcome. Somehow, she is convinced that Blunt is what she has been looking for— even though he is nothing like what she thought she was looking for; nothing at all.
None of that matters, right now; for he wants something from her; she has some leverage— not that she thinks of it like that, but she is desperate for him not to lose interest in her, desperately aware that she can be of little value to him, since nothing of her day-to-day life or concerns seem to be of any interest to him at all; not that he has disrespected her— rather the opposite— but more that while responding with perfect politeness to everything she said, with convincingly real attention and understanding, he had made it clear that he had no real interest in pursuing any of it— not dismissive, just uninterested.
For there to be something she can do for him is marvellous, and her smile is positively sunny as she responds, playfully (but with her heart banging like a drum inside her chest, and some new feeling growing inside her that she has never felt before— another first after an evening and night of powerful and glorious firsts);
“Your slightest wish is my iron command, O Master!”
He grins at her;
“Be careful what you offer, pretty girl— I might just take you, wholesale— then where would your social justice campaigns and your lofty academic ambitions be?”
He let her smile waver, watching her as her body tried to process the feelings he had provoked in her, a small foretaste of the difficult acceptances she would need to make if she was to progress with him.
He was easy, one way or the other. There truly was no shortage of girls like this, once you knew what to look for; had freed your mind of its shackles of moralising and law and justice, and he had honestly tried to shake her off the previous evening, despite her unconscious but strong signalling of her neediness.
What had changed his mind was not her, but a call he had received; a rush job he’d been reluctantly convinced to accept had been cancelled (he’d taken it on only to help a good friend out of some trouble)— he now had a few weeks of down-time in prospect, and this innocent, vulnerable, inviting little chickadee might be a fun project to entertain him.
She’d probably cop-out at some stage, like most of them, but that would be just fine; he still had a sizeable sum in the bank from the sale of the last two— the redhead twins had commanded a very acceptable premium, along with permanent visitation rights.
And honestly, the early stages were the most fun; he was never sad when a lovely did reach her limits; he would kiss her and cuddle her and let her talk herself through— usually with some very enjoyable, tearful break-up sex (interestingly, often being asked to go further, be harsher, more cruel than ever with them, now that they knew he was going to let them go, that they were going to have to live without what he had shown them they could get hooked on; they wanted some hard memories to take away with them, it seemed— it was of no importance to him in any case, and he gave them what they wanted, usually a little more— one or two had broken at that point, an interesting wrinkle, but not one he relied upon). He cared for them all, in his way— the way he cared for a puppy, or a foal, or a sapling; without judgement, but with not the slightest doubt that consideration for their future meant nothing when placed alongside his own desires.
Now, watching her, seeing her realise that she wanted his continued attention enough to accept his dismissal of everything she had told him her life was about, seeing her body, her desire enforce this realisation on her mind, he felt his cock stir; this one might be more interesting than he had expected.
In any case, she was doubling down on her smile and her embarrassing pose, lifting her lovely face to his, catching his eyes and saying, with an attempt at brave sassiness which he knew even she didn’t believe in;
“We’ll have to see, O Master, if you are strong enough to conquer me so completely.”
He saw in her eyes as she realised— too late, for the words were already in the air, in both their heads, in their shared memories of each other, in the look that passed between them then— as she realised that this was much more an invitation to him to conquer her if he could (a plea, even) than it was a throwaway line; she made a brave attempt to hold his gaze, to keep up the pretence that she was confident and cheeky, teasing him with something he could never have, but her internal self doubt won over, and she dropped her head, even as a scarlet flush took her cheekbones and her chest, the upper slopes of her breasts, as her nipples stiffened, as a sharper than normal breath, deeper, caught her diaphragm, made her breasts and hips move. Made her obvious, made her vulnerability an open secret between them, unmissable, now a part of whatever came next.
Interestingly, his first milestone appeared already to have been achieved— the acceptance in the girl’s mind of her own weakness to his desire— a knowledge in her that she took his desires more seriously than she took her purpose in life— even if that might arouse conflict inside her; that it was not at all certain that she would be able to sustain her purpose if it meant she would disappoint him.
Not only achieved, but almost effortlessly so— it was she who had forced the pace.
“Or … or something …”
“Anyway … anyway, you’re nice … you … you wouldn’t …”
She didn’t sound so sure, but she was evidently as keen to hear what he had to say as ever, because when he declined to answer with anything but a calm grin she conquered her doubt, and her shame, making a forced little giggle, undignified, embarrassing herself in front of him, letting him see it, unable to dissemble in front of him, feeling so wonderfully exposed, exposed as she had not been for another person since … since she couldn’t remember when— childhood, probably before raising her eyes to his again, serious now;
This is … this is real; he sees me; ME, and … and I want to let him see me; everything. Jesus, I’m such a mess inside; he’ll take one look and make his excuses…
The thought was unbearable, and she found herself gabbling, stupid;
“Sorry … that … that was silly. Please … please do tell me, what it is you … what it is you want from me.”
He almost told her then— almost told her everything; that he wanted her addicted to orgasms, to hard fucking, to shameful, subordinated, brutal fucking, to painful orgasms, to permanent nudity, to permanent neediness, to permanent desperate uncertainty, to almost total loss of self-belief, of self-worth, so that she would be terribly vulnerable, needy, dependent, to acceptance that he could offer her to others, could hurt her at will, could control her daily life— that he would exploit that addiction to take her down a well-trodden path for him— the path which led to him selling her for a stupidly large sum to some rich pervert as a deeply submissive, well-trained, eager-to-please sex-toy. That she would thank him for having done this to her, on her knees, in front of the customer, with an utterly servile blowjob, and would then deliver exactly the same to her new owner, visibly quivering and shaking with arousal, with sexual need, to prove the quality of Blunt’s training.
One day, he knew, he would try this, see how the chips fell; his level of experience now, his genuine willingness to accept the lovelies as they were, as they responded to his process made him so genuinely calm and casual that he was sure it would carry him through even such a brutally honest approach with the right girl. And increasingly, he was only interested in the right girls, so the sooner he could sort them from the rest, the better.
But not this time; he had weeks now, and he wanted to take this one at a natural pace, savour her, however it turned out. She was particularly lovely, this one, rather more subtle than the usual, and also very emotionally sensitive; she could be like a fine wine— best enjoyed slowly, with appropriate preparation, the right accompaniments, and his full attention.
He smiled at her, a smile she experienced as almost transcendently welcome— a deep validation of everything that had just passed between them; a smile without greed, without triumph, without doubt; a smile of genuine pleasure in her, in them, in the moment, and she melted inside. It had been deeply troubling for a moment, as she had seen what she had revealed to him about herself, her neediness, but his smile had made it all worth it.
He understands me! He sees me— like no-one ever has— and he accepts me; more— he is pleased— likes it, what he see; oh God I might fall in love with him …
“Actually, what I had in mind was something much less— ah— all encompassing; I’m almost embarrassed, now, at how small my humble request actually is, but, well— here goes …”
He sees in her eyes that he has judged this perfectly; she’s doubly happy that she’s revealed herself to him now that she is not going to be immediately taken advantage of; feels safer than ever with him. She has never met a patient man with an evil plan before, it seems. So much the worse for her chances of a free and successful life. His grin widens, evincing nothing but real, honest pleasure, and her smile deepens too.
Then she pouts a little, faking it, as if she is disappointed not to have been ’taken, wholesale’, and his grin becomes even more complacent.
“Well, here it is, with deep apologies for my lack of ambition; very simply, I would be a happy man if you would stay naked for me this morning, as we have our breakfast. That’s it.”
He could see her radiant happiness dawning already at this, and gives her both barrels;
“You’re just so lovely that way, and … well … I’m not so sure I have anything left ‘in the tank’ after last night— but if I do, then it’s watching you move, watching your breasts, your thighs, your pretty pussy— watching you knowing you are naked for me, moving for me— it’s that which will get me hard enough to service you again, milady; always assuming that’s what you would like, of course.”
Her flush deepens into a full-on blush, but her body answers well ahead of her words; her hips move, her jaw slackens, her pupils dilate, and her throat is trembling as she answers, already shucking off the shirt, as if it were an irritation, as if it were on fire;
“Oh … yes. I mean … yes, of course, if you want to see me then I really want to show you … always, and … and yes …” her eyes drop; she’s never asked to be fucked before, but she wants to ask, it’s just … just a little hurdle to get her mouth to form the words, and she is determined to do it well, to have him know that she is sincere, so she has to pause, until she can say it clearly; “Yes. Yes I want you to fuck me again. Any … anytime you want, I want you to know that you can fuck me. I … I have never … I mean … I didn’t know it could be … Yes; yes I would like that.”
All this is getting her more hot and bothered; she feels light-headed, and dizzy, and so terribly, terribly shy; at the same time as she is fighting all her instincts to show herself to him as attractively as she can, without doing anything obviously slutty. Not that she wouldn’t do slutty things for him if he so much as hinted he’d like it— more that this is serious— deadly serious— for her, and she does not want it to be tawdry.
His expression is as calm and softly attentive as ever; again, no gleam in his eye or hint of body language that he is anything but in the moment with her, enjoying this, enjoying something they are making, together.
And it’s true; that’s how he is. The knowledge of what he will do to her if he can, of the terrible price she will pay for moments like this are not hidden away in his mind; he is not pretending— they are there, fully present in his thoughts, just as would be the understanding, when he is tending to them, that the foal may be ridden to death some day in a rodeo, that the sapling will be felled for firewood, that the puppy will be strictly trained to his specific purposes, given no other choice, if it should prove impossible to train than to be culled.
There is no conflict in his being, none at all, about this situation, and she responds with her own new, strange openness and— fairly obviously— rising lust, a surprise more to her than to him, as she crawls toward him— not play acting, but simply because she is already down and it is the quickest way to doing what has proposed itself in her mind— what she had never once done until last night— to take his cock deeply into her mouth, even into the back of her throat, letting her body react without permitting herself to recoil or pull away; to love his cock, to worship and serve it, coax it by pandering to its every twitch, to every shift in his hips, touch of his hand on her body, finding it glorious to do so, to be privileged to do so, until he is hard enough, until he simply— seemingly effortlessly— lifts her up and flips her over and arranges her, face-down, ass-up (she will learn the position names soon enough), and simply and directly pile-drives into her soaking pussy, catching both her wrists in one large sinewy hand; for this is what she wants above all else, what she was asking for; to be taken back where he had taken her the night before; to the state where she had been nothing, nothing at all but the body that he was fucking, the body that was giving itself to being fucked, accepting everything about the fucking for its own sake, without filters— the roughness, the hurt, the irresistible strength of his hands on her, forcefully positioning her without consideration of anything but his ease of access, his pleasure, the astonishment in her at how gorgeous it was to be helpless in his hands, to have no choice, no choices at all, the astonishing sensation of the end of his cock punching at the entrance to her womb, above all of the liberating knowledge that she was being used for fucking, rather than being a partner in lovemaking, knowing instantly in that moment that she preferred being used to being a partner by a country mile, would always prefer it; shocking herself, then instantly dismissing the shock with the irresistible force of her body’s need for release, opening herself to the idea of being used, welcoming it, embracing it, no other reason needed than the release it granted to parts of her which are now revealed to her as having been starved, suppressed; parched and shrivelled. Parts of her which, once awakened, once they have delivered the intensity of orgasm after orgasm, demand their due, demand reparations, demand revenge, almost, on the repressive, moralistic ideas and attitudes, thoughtless assumptions and habits which have denied them, denied her this astonishing wild pleasure, this glorious freedom of being nothing more than a thing which is being fucked, fucked hard, fucked selfishly by someone strong enough to control her physically, control her mentally, too; to give herself away to his pleasure, having discovered that it is her pleasure, too; pleasure that has previously been unimaginable, pleasure which it now seems is easily available, if only she can convince him to fuck her; why she had been prancing about in his shirt; why she was almost unbearably grateful to him for having been clear about what, exactly, it would take for him to use her again.
For the certainty that imprints itself in her head, as she lies there, after yet another tornado of an orgasm, shuddering and quivering, laughing and crying (for he has hurt her, too; bitten at her neck, tenderised the lining of her throat, stretched her pussy, crushed her nipples, bruised her wrists, wrenched her shoulders so that they had screamed with the pain); the certainty that, as often as possible when she is with him, she will be naked. Naked and presenting herself to him as a thing which is ready to be fucked; which is hoping eagerly that it will be fucked, and fucked hard, fucked mercilessly.
